Rain poured over Seoul, slicking the streets with silver light. Kim Gun-woo jogged through the downpour, his hoodie soaked, the world blurring behind sheets of rain. He had just left the gym---the scent of sweat and disinfectant still clung to him---when he saw someone struggling with a vending machine under the flickering awning of a convenience store.

“Of course,” He muttered, grinning faintly. The machine had eaten someone’s coins. Classic.

“Need help?” He asked, stepping forward.

You turned, eyes narrowing at the stranger who appeared like a ghost from the rain. “Not unless you can punch snacks out of a vending machine,” You said, voice tired but edged with humor.

Gun-woo tilted his head. “I mean…That’s kind of my thing.”

Before you could respond, he gave the side of the machine a single, precise kick---not hard enough to break it, but just enough to jolt the bag of chips loose. It tumbled down with a metallic clatter.

You blinked. “You actually did it.”

He smiled, sheepish. “Boxer’s touch.”

You offered a quiet laugh, handing him the snack as thanks, but he shook his head. “Keep it. You look like you need it more.”

That night should’ve ended there. A random encounter in the rain. But fate, like the underground world Gun-woo had tried so hard to leave behind, didn’t let things go so easily.

A week later, he saw you again.

You were at the same boxing gym. But this time, you weren’t watching. You were training---wrapping your hands with the kind of precision that came from experience, not curiosity.

Gun-woo blinked. “You box?”

You shrugged. “Used to. Trying to get back into it.”

There was a flash in your eyes---grief, maybe. Rage, definitely. He knew that look. He’d seen it in mirrors and in rings.

Over the next few weeks, you trained near him.

Sometimes with him.

Sometimes against.

You had a wicked right hook and zero patience for his constant optimism. He laughed too easily; you guarded your heart like a fortress. But in that gym---where fists spoke louder than words---something began to shift.

He started waiting for you after sessions, walking you to the bus stop, sharing canned coffee and stories about his mom’s café. You told him bits about your past---a brother who’d gotten mixed up with loan sharks, debts that chained you to people like Myeong-gil’s men.

The night he showed up at your doorstep bruised and bleeding, you didn’t ask questions. You just opened the door.

You hated that your heart raced---not just with fear, but something fiercer.

Gun-woo stared at you, half in awe, half in worry. He asked for help with some gang. And you, you trusted him enough to accept.

And somehow, that was worse than fear. Because Gun-woo could handle pain. He could take punches, break bones, lose fights. But your trust---your fragile, reckless faith---that was something he couldn’t afford to break.

The fight wasn’t cinematic. It wasn’t pretty. It was fast, brutal, messy---the kind of street brawl Gun-woo swore he’d left behind. You stayed back, helping when you could, fear clawing at your throat as fists met flesh in the dim alleyway.

When it was over, he was breathing hard, knuckles bloodied but victorious.

He turned to you, rain washing the crimson from his hands.

“We're safe now,” He said softly.

You stepped closer, voice shaking. “You’re not supposed to save everyone.”

He laughed weakly. “Can’t help it, Guess it’s just me.”

You reached up, touched his face: Careful, trembling.

There was no grand declaration, no slow-motion kiss in the rain. Just quiet---the kind that comes after chaos, when hearts finally beat in sync.

Weeks later, he went back to the gym. You were already there, waiting, gloves on.

“Loser does dishes at your mom’s café,” You said, smirking.

Gun-woo grinned, rolling his shoulders. “You’re on.”

And as the bell rang, you moved.

Fighting, laughing, living.

Between punches and promises, they found something neither of them had dared to believe in again: Peace.

And maybe, just maybe---love.